Unto Death

by Lena West

  The sparkling blue waters viewed from the Manly Esplanade had looked so inviting on those hot summer days, Lucy had wished it was possible to bathe. How she had envied the group of ragged children she saw darting in and out of the waves, shouting with glee. At a kiosk, they bought postcards to send home, telling everyone how much fun they were having.

  Returning to the hotel on Sydney's George Street, which they had made their base, they began preparing for departure. They were booked to sail back to Newcastle tomorrow night.

  Lucy had never been happier; didn't believe greater happiness could possibly exist. Well, maybe there was one more thing, only she felt such a greedy, ungrateful wretch for even thinking it. She looked up the beach to see Stephen winding in his line and began tidying away her sketching pad and pencils.

  Stephen had yet to utter those magical three little words she so longed to hear. Contemplating this omission, it occurred to her, now she was more accustomed to their lovemaking, that there was a secret, closed-off part of himself which her husband withheld from her, in even their most intimate moments.

  What is it? she wondered And why?

  A momentary shadow eclipsed her joy. She shivered. With a nervous laugh, she rubbed at the goosebumps rising on her arms.

  Completely open herself, she knew she was quite incapable of withholding any part of herself from Stephen while caught up in the throes of intimacy. Even to the raw novice she was, it was obvious that he enjoyed making love to her. Each night he fell asleep sated with pleasure; so, what was it he held back? And why?

  She simply couldn't understand it, but was sure it was real, not a product of her imagination. A frown creased her forehead as she contemplated all sorts of alarming possibilities, instantly dismissing them all with a laugh.

  Whatever it was, it would sort itself out in time. She would just have to be patient, which she admitted was no easy feat for her.

  Stephen hummed under his breath as he ambled down the beach to where Lucy waited in the shade of a gnarled old paperbark tree. All his pre-wedding fears had been groundless.

  It had proved to be remarkably easy to make love to Lucy, even without loving her. With Lucy, he could safely revel in their bed-play. She was so responsive to the slightest nuance; so eager to please and be pleased. No-one could satisfy him more. Not even Isabella, though it felt traitorous to entertain such thoughts. He admitted to himself that he felt a little nervous whenever he thought about seeing his love again; shocked to realise this was the first time in days thoughts of Isabella had crossed his mind.

  He shook himself, and resolutely returned his thoughts to his wife. This was her time. The future would take care of itself.

  Their long friendship made it easy to spend his days with Lucy in the pursuit of pleasure.

  It was easy to be the husband Lucy wanted. Easy to be her companion and lover. Isabella held his heart, his unassailable, innermost self; but she was far away.

  Lucy was here. She didn't hang on him all the time, either. One of his worst fears had been that she would cling limpet-like to his arm, demanding his constant attention, but, enjoying her independence, she never did. Witness today, he thought, his heart lifting. Not the least bit interested in fishing, there she was happily occupied with her sketch book, recording memories of their holiday; giving him leave to take time out this morning for himself. Lucy was such a good sport about so many things.

  If he had to have a wife, he was glad fate had gifted him with Lucy. She was such a sensible, comfortable girl to be with and they shared so many similar tastes.

  If not for his prior commitment to Isabella, he thought he could have been entirely happy with Lucy. Abruptly he caught himself up. He simply couldn't allow such thoughts to disrupt his fragile balance.

  Casting aside her disturbing introspection, Lucy leapt to her feet and ran down the beach like a wild ragamuffin to meet Stephen half-way. Laughing when the wind blew her hat back to bounce by its ribbons against her back, she pushed her hair, slipping untidily free of its pins, from her face. Grabbing up his free hand, she leaned over to look in his bucket.

  “Two today! Bravo, Darling.”

  Rising on tip-toe, she rewarded his angling skills with a quick kiss.

  “You're back early. You must be hungry.”

  “I am.”

  Stephen had grown accustomed to Lucy's easy, affectionate ways, no longer feeling guilty for taking pleasure in such gestures. Sometimes, in fact, he deliberately teased her when they were alone together, hoping to win more of her generous kisses.

  “But I'm not as early as all that, Lu-Lu. See, there's our driver just arrived.”

  They piled Lucy's rug, cushion and sketching materials into the basket. Lucy made a futile attempt to tidy her hair, then simply laughed, cramming the mess under her hat. Hand in hand, in total accord, they set off back to their hotel.

  Leaving Stephen's borrowed fishing gear for their driver to return to its owner, the fish a bonus for him to take home to his wife, they passed through the hotel's main entry, laughing together at the man's parting joke.

  Tugging Lucy off balance, Stephen came to an abrupt halt, all vestiges of laughter wiped from his countenance. Standing stock-still, staring in disbelief, he didn't even hear Lucy speak to him.

  “Darling? Stephen dear? What is it?”

  Why did she feel as if a goose had walked over her grave? Lucy shivered. Receiving no answer from her husband, she sought it in the direction of his unwavering stare. Dread premonition wrapped icy tentacles round her vulnerable heart.

  Stephen's gaze was fixed upon the most beautiful woman Lucy had ever seen.

  Older than herself by at least a decade, the woman had that certain something which never fails to catch the eye of every male within range. Alone in the foyer, an overnight bag at her feet, she was being fawned upon by not only the desk clerk and porters, but the manager as well.

  As if instinct informed her she was under observation, the exotic, dark-haired beauty turned slowly, a triumphant, welcoming smile lifting the corners of her mouth when she saw who it was. Eyes only for Stephen, she abandoned her court, gliding across the expanse of Italianate tiled floor to reach out and clasp Stephen's hand in both of hers.

  “My dear Stephen. What a pleasant surprise! I scarcely dared believe I would be lucky enough to stumble across you. I thought you must surely have left for home by now.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek.

  Ignored by both, Lucy seethed.

  Who was this woman who considered she had the right to behave towards her husband with such familiarity? Studying the newcomer, Lucy jealously noted her immaculate presentation.

  Dressed flamboyantly, yet in the most up-to-date fashion, with not a hair out of place, her very perfection placed Lucy at an intolerable disadvantage. Her hours on the beach, had reduced her to a drab, dishevelled hoyden in comparison. It wasn't fair.

  Stirred into annoyance, she gave Stephen's hand a vigorous shake, recalling him to the proprieties. She gritted her teeth when, abruptly reminded of her existence at his side he started, as if wakening from a trance.

  “Wha…? Lucy! Lucy, this is my… our friend, Mrs Cummings. From Far Horizons, you know. Our next-door neighbour up on The Ridge.”

  Lucy read guilt in the way his eyes slid away from hers, evading direct contact. It took her brain a split second longer to recall when she had heard that name, Cummings, before and put two and two together.

  “Mrs Cummings, I'd like you to meet Lucy. My wife,” Stephen added, almost as an afterthought, dropping Lucy's hand.

  “My dear Mrs Fortescue, I'm so happy to meet you at last, although, you know, I'm not the last, am I? I'm the first from our tiny community to meet the new bride. Aren't I the clever one?”

  The woman tittered at her own joke. Lucy could have kicked Stephen when he dutifully joined in the laughter as if the mild sally were the wittiest jest he'd ever heard.

  Lucy wasn't laughing, though. She could find nothing even remotely amusing in thi
s encounter and had trouble controlling her anger, now she had realised exactly who this bold siren was.

  Confronted by the woman in the flesh, it wasn't hard to believe Hetty McGowan's rumours. All of them.

  Though whatever she and Stephen had shared was surely in the past, it seemed she still wielded far too much power over Stephen for Lucy's peace of mind.

  She wished the woman gone; was glad they'd only be sharing a hotel with her for one night, since they were catching tomorrow night's steamship home again. A socially polite smile was the best Lucy could dredge up.

  What is the dratted woman doing here? Now? The question was a silent scream in her head.

  Not waiting for Lucy to respond, the woman continued, turning back to face Stephen as she spoke.

  “But what are we about? It's absurd for such close friends as the Fortescues and the Cummingses to be so formal. You two must be Lucy and Stephen to me, and Lucy,” she flicked a dismissive glance to grant the untidy girl token inclusion in the conversation, “you must call me Isabella, as your husband does.”

  From under her lashes she caressed Stephen with melting brown eyes.

  As if I'm not right here at his side, Lucy fumed, aching to escape. Her wish was soon granted, but not before the wretched female had wrung a promise from Stephen to join her in the dining room for luncheon. Excluded by the way Isabella insinuated herself between them, Lucy was unsure whether or not the invitation included her, but she certainly wasn't letting her husband anywhere near that vulture without herself at his side. She held Stephen innocent of conspiring to engineer this meeting, since it was obvious from the dazed stupefaction still holding him in thrall that it had come as a complete surprise to him.

  What neither of them knew, was how Isabella, unwilling to trust to chance, had sent a messenger round all the principal hotels until she located them; then booked a room in the same hotel, having first waved Archibald off on the riverboat to Parramatta for the next three days.

  *****

  Luncheon was an excruciating affair. This time, although Lucy acknowledged herself outmatched in the beauty stakes, she took extra care to be on at least an equal footing sartorially; not that it did her any good. Other than innocuous platitudes from time to time, Isabella ignored her presence, shutting her out of the conversation while monopolising Stephen; who seemed to have completely forgotten he had a wife.

  That awful woman held him utterly enthralled. Hurt and angry, Lucy could barely bring herself to be polite.

  Leading the way to the main staircase to return to their rooms after luncheon, Lucy's pert nose was elevated so high she was in danger of tripping over unseen obstacles in her path. She was so relieved the interminable ordeal had finally limped to its conclusion, she failed to observe Isabella slip a closely folded square of paper into Stephen's hand.

  *****

  Tying the ribbons of her bonnet, Lucy observed her husband in the mirror. He fidgeted a while then flung himself into the room's single armchair.

  “Hurry up, Stephen darling,” she said, reminding him of their plans to make some last-minute gift purchases. With friends to pay a farewell visit to on the following day, this afternoon was their last opportunity for shopping.

  “You go ahead, Lucy. I've remembered some letters I need to write if they're to get in today's post. You don't really need my help shopping, do you?”

  Put like that, what could she do but agree?

  There was more than a hint of a flounce as Lucy snatched up her shopping basket and marched out the door. Grandmama had warned her against confrontations, however justified; most especially angry confrontations, but ooh, she longed to vent her spleen regarding that abominable woman.

  She'd barely stepped onto the pavement before she realised that in her annoyance she had walked out, forgetting to put her purse in her basket. A lot of shopping she'd manage with no money. Uttering an irate hiss, she reversed direction.

  There was no help for it, she'd just have to put up with looking a fool in front of Stephen. He would just have to get up from his letter-writing, if indeed there were any letters, which she took leave to doubt, and let her back in. She turned into the corridor where their room was located.

  And there was Stephen.

  Not writing letters in their room as he'd claimed, but way down the other end of the corridor. Nowhere near their own room.

  Blood turning to ice in her veins, Lucy steadied herself against the wall. Not only in the wrong place; Stephen was locked in an indecently close embrace with Isabella Cummings, who released him barely long enough to pull him through the open door at her back, closing it smartly behind them.

  Sick to her stomach, Lucy shook like a leaf in a thunderstorm. Her legs too wobbly to support her, she sank down to sit huddled on the bottom step leading up to the next floor. What should she do? Watching Isabella's manner at luncheon she had known the older woman was deliberately leading Stephen on, flirting with him, quite uncaring of Lucy's presence.

  This was infinitely worse.

  Stephen had got her out of the way with a trick, then wasted no time rushing off to the woman rumoured to have been his lover.

  Lucy's hands balled into tight fists. Confronted by the proof of her own eyes, she had no option other than to accept the rumour as truth. More than that simple truth even, since it seemed obvious their association did not lie safely in the past. It was, it appeared, very much alive in the present.

  But Stephen is a married man now. My husband. How can he betray me so cruelly?

  Lucy gasped, struggling to contain her tears. She had believed him to be an honourable man.

  She had believed he loved her.

  Did their closeness, in and out of bed, for the month past mean nothing to him, when it meant absolutely everything to her?

  Her first instinct was to rush down the corridor, fling the door open and shout out her disgust at the pairs' blatant misbehaviour. She wanted to rant and rave and throw things, preferably at That Woman's face.

  She was afraid.

  Terrified.

  An icy chill sent shivers through her body. What if she did all those things and they laughed in her face and told her to run away? What if Stephen repudiated her; told her he never wanted to see her again?

  What would she do if her marriage was all over, and them still on their honeymoon? Lucy couldn't hold back the uncontrollable sobs tearing the heart from her breast.

  The sudden outburst of weeping quickly slowed to a hiccupping halt as she realised with a start where she was. Anyone at all could have come up the stairs and seen her in this pitiful state.

  But she had nowhere to go.

  Without a key she couldn't even get back into their room, and she was too embarrassed to be seen in this state by the desk clerk. Rising unsteadily to her feet she made such repairs to her face as she could and slowly descended to the lobby. Exiting the hotel, face averted, she wandered aimlessly off down the street, intent only on putting distance between herself and the disaster she'd left behind.

  Last time she'd cried her eyes out, she had turned to Grandmama for advice and guidance. This calamity was a hundred times worse; a thousand times; and Grandmama was far away.

  Lucy couldn't face Stephen; not now. Not yet. He'd want to know why she was crying and there was no satisfactory answer she could give him without precipitating a fight. The numbing shock abated. Agony ripped through her, her tears flowing anew.

  “Just look at that hussy, will you? Disgusting! I'd be ashamed if my daughter exposed herself like that in public. Crying in the streets! What next, I ask you.”

  The speaker's strident tones impinged on Lucy's despair, turning her anguish up a notch. However, the stranger's censure made her aware of her surroundings. Where could she hide till she was in control of herself again? Wildly, she looked about, seeking shelter. Some dark hole to crawl into and hide.

  Across the other side of Hyde Park stood the imposing granite entrance to St Mary's Cathedral. Without another thought, Luc
y picked up her skirts and ran, not stopping till she was safely ensconced behind a pillar in the back corner.

  Face buried in her hands, she wept till she ran out of tears. Leaning against the back of the pew, she closed her eyes, too exhausted to move. Too exhausted even to think.

  A rustle of fabric followed by a light bump on the pew warned her she had company.

  Cringing back into her corner, she cracked her red, swollen eyes open a slit to peep through her fingers. A serene, Madonna-faced nun of indeterminate age sat side-on to her, no more than a foot away, observing her through the kindliest of eyes. The two studied each other in silence. Perceiving no threat, Lucy sat up straighter, searching for a handkerchief to wipe away evidence of her tears. As if that was a signal of some kind, the nun leaned forwards, pressing a moist cloth into Lucy's hands.

  “There you are, my dear child. Wipe those pretty eyes, now. I can't let you back outside with your eyes all red and swollen and those bonny cheeks streaked with tears. Take as long as you need to compose yourself, I'll just say a prayer to our beloved Mother, Mary, to come to your aid in this, your time of trouble.”

  With that she slipped onto the kneeler and clasped her hands in silent prayer.

  Doing as she'd been bidden, Lucy held the cool cloth to her face, eyes fixed on the serene profile of her Good Samaritan. When the nun sat back on her heels and sighed, Lucy, voice still woefully shaky, finally dared to speak.

  “It's very kind of you Sister.” A protestant, she remembered from her Irish maid's chatter that nuns were addressed as Sister.

  “Only I don't think the Blessed Mother of God can help me. I'm ashamed to even ask it of her.”

  “Now that's where you're wrong, Dear. Quite wrong. Our Holy Mother is always willing to listen to a prayer from the heart, and you'd be amazed at how often supplicants are rewarded with the help they need. Not always the help they asked for, mind,” a wry smile lit her face, making her appear less of a saint; more approachable, Lucy thought; “but help, none-the-less.”